


Clearest Blue

by tsthrace



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Minor Original Character(s), My First Smut, Sex Work, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-02-09 21:29:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18646453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsthrace/pseuds/tsthrace
Summary: Clarke is a sex worker. Lexa has never done this before.Or: Broken Lexa encounters broken Clarke, and they pretend—unsuccessfully—that they're not so broken together.





	1. Chapter 1

She is a majestic statue when she first comes through my door. Sleek, smooth, and stiff as fuck. Her shoulders are thrown back as if locked into place, and she is so upright I wonder if she’ll break if she bends. (We’ll see.) Even her coat looks like sandstone.  

“You need a drink?” I ask as she looks around.

“I don’t drink.” Her green eyes look just past me.

“Okay.” Many of my clients don’t drink. “Are you...in recovery?”

“No,” she says flatly. “It just clouds my judgment.”

I scoff and pour myself some whiskey. “Well, you’re already here, so…”

She ignores me. “Are you clean?” All her words seem to be chopped off at the end.

“Excuse me?” I squint my eyes so that she’ll think I’m put off, but I’m smiling inside. She’s never done this before.

“I just—” The words would sound flustered if her face wasn’t stone. “Have you been tested?”

I shake my head and let the smile escape. “Of course I’m clean. You’re paying a lot of money.” I take a sip. “Speaking of money…”

She nods briefly and reaches into her leather shoulder bag. I take the folded bills she hands me without counting them. I know I don’t need to.

“You sure you don’t want a drink?” I ask as I put the money in a drawer.

“I’m sure.” She stands awkwardly, though still majestic, in the center of the room.

“What’s your name?” I set the glass down and walk towards her.

“You don’t know?” She doesn’t move. She doesn’t even look at me.

I shake my head as I gently pull the bag off her shoulder. “They don’t tell us.” I saunter to the corner of the room and set it on a chair. “But did you even give them your real name?”

She takes a deep breath and folds her arms in front of her.

“You don’t have to tell me.” I shrug. “But sometimes it helps people loosen up.”

The air around her grows even stiffer, if that’s possible. I linger at the chair for a moment, taking her in. I know this type—the type who’s scared when they’re not sure what to do, and even more scared of me seeing how scared she is. But I see it. Her stone face can’t hide it. She’s used to being in control, used to knowing exactly what she wants and how to get it. But now she’s here. With me.

“I thought you’d be dressed...differently,” she says, finally looking at me.

I look down at my Wallflowers t-shirt and well-loved jeans. “This is my favorite shirt.” I say, smirking. “And I think I look pretty good in it.” I do. It used to be black with the Bringing Down the Horse album cover on it, but the years had loved it down to thin threads, and it now settles like a veil over me, hinting at the dips and curves underneath. There’s a reason I’m dressed this way.

I see her bite her lip.

I walk back over to her. I put my hands on the lapels of her coat. It’s heavy, wool, and it fits her perfectly. I feel her chest expand under my hands, a breath she can’t hide. I unbutton the top button. And the next. And the next. I look up, but she’s looking out at, well, nothing. Then I move behind her and slip the coat off her shoulders and down her arms. I walk back over to the chair and lay the coat down. She’s wearing a smooth and simple sleeveless black top that reveals her shoulders, which are neither broad nor petite but strong. Her gray slacks are sharp, a men’s style but a woman’s cut. There’s a reason she’s dressed this way.

She still doesn’t move, standing like a pillar in front of me.

I tilt my head. If I’m being honest, I don’t know what to do with her, really. If I move too fast, she’ll pull away. If I move too softly, she’ll pull away. That’s what I do know. So I decide on the direct route. I stand in front of her, but not too close.

“What would you like?” I ask, not quite whispering.

It startles me when she lets out a long breath. She closes her eyes, and I see her shoulders relax just a little. Her hands fall to her sides. “What I would like is to not have to say anything.” Her words are both sharp and tired.

I nod slowly and look into her eyes. She finally looks back, her eyes steady, cold. I reach down to grab the hem of my shirt and pull it up over my head to reveal a black bra underneath.

Her eyes squint—just barely, but I notice. I also notice the tiny curl in her lip that disappears quickly. But I see it.

I step behind her. Her long, brown hair is pulled away from her face but falls in waves down her back. I push it to the side, over her shoulder, my fingers brushing over her skin. I feel her let out a quick breath. I put my lips on the back of her neck, let them rest there for a moment. I reach around and put my hand on her stomach. The shirt is as soft as it looks, maybe silk. I slide under. I feel the tiny hairs on her belly on my fingertips. I kiss her neck again, reach out and taste the salt and...something...of her skin. Most women taste like their soap or some floral product, but she doesn’t. There’s something else. If things were different, I’d linger to figure it out, but instead I move to her shoulder, dig my teeth into the skin just a little. Enough to elicit a small gasp. I reach my hand up and place it on her sternum and wrap the other around her, pulling her into me.

She stiffens again. I loosen my hold. “Is this okay?”

“I told you, I don’t want to talk.”

I bite my lip then pull her close again, tight. I feel her push against my arms, but I don’t give. I continue my exploration of her shoulder with my tongue, pushing my lips hard into her. Goosebumps prickle up on her skin. She pushes against my arms again, and this time I reach and grab her wrist, holding it tightly to lock her against me.

The speed with which she breaks from my hold and turns scares me a little. She’s on me, pushing me. I nearly stumble, but she holds me up, still pushing. Until my back hits the wall. It’s cold, striking against the heat building inside me. Her mouth is on my neck, tongue and teeth digging deeply, her hand pushing up into my breast. Her eyes are a swarm of green and black. I feel her fingers try to move under the band of my bra, struggling. Without warning, she spins me around to unclasp the bra. I feel the fabric loosen and creep down my arms. I shrug it off and gasp when she pushes me hard against the cold wall. She pulls away for a moment, taking off her shirt, and then her breasts are against my back, her mouth on my ear. Her breath is frantic, ragged.

I suck in a breath, feel my body tremble, surprised. I want her. Sometimes I’m into my clients. Often I’m not. But I _want_ her. I shudder. I need to be careful.

She turns me around again, but she’s gone. Her mouth is on mine, her hands sliding roughly up my side and over my breast, but she’s not there. Her eyes are closed, and I could be anyone. I’m used to it with clients. I’m just a screen they project their hope or anger or fantasy onto. I step out of myself and become who they need. It’s why they pay me, and it’s what I enjoy. I can become anyone. Usually. But I can’t get the taste of her skin out of my mouth. I want to taste it again, slowly. I want to savor it, figure it out.

But her tongue is in my mouth, frantically searching for mine, and I give it to her, pushing back hard. I know that’s what she wants. But I also raise my hand to her face, cupping her jaw, pulling her closer. Her eyes shoot open, wild and distant. She grabs my wrist and pins it against the wall. Her strength and those wild eyes make me nervous. She’s at my neck now, breathing hard, the fingers of her free hand playing at my nipple. It’s too much, but I don’t stop her. If things were different, I’d slow her down, force her to look in my eyes. Instead I let her move down, her mouth now on my collarbone, now kissing the outside curve of my breast. She doesn’t let go of my wrist as her hand comes down and she takes my nipple into her mouth.

I gasp and feel my body start to glow. I want to push her down and tease her with slow, soft kisses up and down her sides. I want to drag my fingernails across her back and make her cry out. Instead, I watch as she stops to slip out of her boots and socks, as she slides her pants off along with everything else. All that remains is a thin pounded silver bracelet.

I try to get into character, try to smirk as I look up and down her naked body, but it’s hard to fight the urge to reach out and lightly touch her fingers with mine. Which is what I do. Her eyes narrow as she snatches her hand away from mine and reaches for the button on my pants. Somehow she has them off in seconds, and all that remains on me is a simple silver ring.

She stops for just a moment, her lips slightly open, her eyes low and questioning, like she’s seeing me for the first time. No longer stone, no longer distant.

I step towards her slowly and raise one hand to her jaw again and thread the other around her waist. I kiss her slowly. She returns the kiss with soft, cautious lips. I pull her against me, gentle this time. When she runs a fingernail lightly down my back, I feel goosebumps shiver all over my body. Every tiny hair stands on end.

She steps back from me quickly, her eyes swarming. A tiny smile creeps across her mouth. I can tell she’s gone again.

I swallow.

She grabs my wrist and pulls me to the bed, pushing me down and crawling on top of me.

I give up, let myself turn into the passive girl she seems to need, making sure to push just a little here and there. I raise my hand to stroke her breast. She pins it down. I reach up to kiss her neck. She nudges me away, kissing me hard, biting my bottom lip.

She fucks me until sweat is dripping down ropes of her hair and we’re sliding against each other. And when she fucks me, I come. Despite the pretending, despite the space I try to put between us, I want her. When the waves heaving through my body finally dissipate, she smiles distantly and collapses onto me. Her breaths are deep and heavy. Her shoulder is inches from my mouth. I want to reach up, taste, but I don’t want her to leave now that it’s done.

“I thought I was the one who was supposed to do that to you.” The timing is all wrong, but I need to say something.

“I thought you were the one who’s supposed to do whatever I want.” Her voice feels a mile away. But she doesn’t move.

Outside, the sun is going down and the room fills with orange light. Usually, this would be when I would squirm out from underneath her and say that I need to clean up. I’d give her the look that says _we’re done for now_ , go into the bathroom, and shut the door behind me.

But I don’t. A few minutes pass. Her breath steadies, and the sweat starts to evaporate. I shiver.

“Are you cold?” Her voice has changed. “Let’s get under the blankets.” She lifts herself off of me, and I already miss the weight of her. We crawl under the thick comforter. She lays on her back and puts her hands behind her head. I lay on my side, my head propped up on my hand.

“How long have you been doing this?” she asks.

“A few years.”

“Men?”

“Sometimes. But I’m picky. And you have to be more careful.”

“Are you picky with women?”

“Women are easier. Usually.” I grin to myself.

“You don’t look the way I thought you would.” She turns to face me. “Not as polished.”

“You sure know how to seduce a lady.” I don’t know why I say it. I don’t even know why I’m still laying here. I blush, which makes her blush and look away.

“I just meant—” Her voice is quiet. “You’re more...real, somehow. Like you’re just you.”

“You don’t even know me.” It sounds like an invitation, and I know it.

“I see more than you think.” Her eyes look steadily into mine. They’re warm, open. Suddenly my words are gone. One corner of her mouth pulls into a smile. The first real one I’ve seen. “What’s your name anyway? I know it’s not Cate.” She shakes her head, the smile still there. “You’re not a Cate.”

“No…” I say slowly. “I’m not a Cate.” It’s happened before. Not often, but it’s a hazard of the trade. Every once in awhile, someone gets over my wall or, in this case, keeps it from even going up. It’s bad for business. It’s the distance that makes this work possible. But I remember that taste… I look at her shoulder. I should end this now, refer her to someone else.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” She rolls onto her back again, and the scent of our sex, of that taste, escapes out the top of the blankets.

I close my eyes. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” It’s not a flirt so much as a plea. I need to stop myself. I don’t need to know her name. She definitely doesn’t need to know mine.

It doesn’t matter, because she jerks out of bed. “I need to go.” She paces around the room looking for her clothes. I can’t help but watch as she pulls on her underwear. I need to stop.

“If you need to shower…”

She doesn’t answer.

I turn onto my back and stare at the ceiling, listening to her rustle around the room. I know when she pulls her pants on, when she slides into her boots. I see her shadow cross in the periphery as she goes to the chair for her coat and bag.

“Thank you.” She’s stone again.

I just nod, though I know she’s not looking at me, though I know she’s already halfway to the door. I hear it click shut and take in a deep breath.


	2. Chapter 2

“I didn’t believe you at first,” Lucy says to me. She’s lying across the thick comforter wearing nothing. I’m stroking her back lightly with two fingers, because I know she likes it. I even kind of like it, but not in the way you think.

“What do you mean?”

“The nice things you say.” Lucy lays her head on her hands, one cheek down so she’s looking at me. She’s a thin woman. So thin that I had been worried about her for awhile. After a year, though, she told me that there was nothing wrong with her. She ate whatever she wanted and more. It didn’t change anything. She’s just always been bone thin.

I nod. I know she likes to take her time when she talks. I keep stroking her back. Her skin is soft and pale with freckles everywhere.

She looks past me out the window. “Do you remember the first time?”

I smile a little. “Everyone’s scared their first time.”

Her first time, Lucy had come in from a hard rain, and she didn’t have an umbrella or even a jacket. Her clothes stuck to every part of her. I could see her sharp shoulder blades poking through her sweater, and her pants clung to calves no bigger than my upper arms. When she had seen me looking at her, her head fell and she shifted towards the door. I had stopped her. I pushed the dripping hair from her face and kissed her forehead. Then I went to the bathroom and grabbed some towels. I slowly undressed her then patted her down. When she was dry, I tucked her under the thick comforter, took my clothes off, and laid next to her to warm her up.

“You told me…” She closes her eyes. “You told me that I looked like a painting you had seen—at the library, I think.” She laughs a little.

“You did!” I laugh, too. “I still remember the painting.” It had been at the Jefferson Market Library. Part of a small exhibit—women intense and gorgeous.

Her smile fades, but her eyes are still shining. “It was the most beautiful thing anyone ever said about me.”

“Well, you never saw the painting I was talking about,” I tease.

“Don’t do that.” She looks at me with blue eyes so serious I’m startled. “I know you meant it. Well, now I know.” She shifts onto her back. Her breasts are small, topped by tiny pink nipples that are always rigid. She puts her hands behind her head. She would have never left herself so exposed a year ago. She looks at the ceiling. “You’re a good person. I hope you know that.”

“You don’t—”

“I know you are.” She cuts me off. “You’re fierce. Fiercely kind. And I bet fiercely loyal. I hope someone out there gets to have all of that.”

I can’t keep the sigh from escaping.

Lucy looks at me puzzled. “What’s that about?”

“Nothing.” I turn over and grab my shirt.

“Oh no you don’t.” Lucy’s never been the prying type, so I’m surprised when she grabs my arm. “Something’s weird about you.” She squints at me. “You’ve been a little distracted.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s fine. Really. Tonight has been lovely. You always make me feel so beautiful. But I know something is bothering you.”

She knows me too well, but I don’t mind. Lucy has always been comfortable just being a client. It was like therapy to her, she once said. She understands that the vulnerability only goes in one direction. But after a few months of sex together, it’s hard not to get to know a person, no matter how regulated the banter is after.

“Listen, Cate,” she says quietly. “I’m not going to ask any questions. I’ll just say that you deserve whatever it is you want.”

\---

The next day, Lucy’s words carry me to the coffee shop at the corner of 3rd and Sullivan. I’m looking for the stone woman, hoping she’ll walk by. She doesn’t seem like a Village girl, but the scent of the trees around Washington Square Park reminds me of her. I find a seat by the window. I sip my latte so slowly it gets cold. I watch. A few times I think I see her. But the shoes are wrong. Or the shoulders.

The next day I look for her in the park. A river of people meanders under tall, impassive oaks. A man with his cat on a leash. A woman shouting into her phone as she pushes a sleeping baby. I keep an eye out for dark colors and long hair. It’s warm—too warm for late October—but I have a feeling she dresses dark even on the hottest days.

The sunlight pours down in beams through the branches above. I look up. _She’s not stone_ , I realize. _She’s an oak._

I don’t leave until the sun is going down and I have a client to meet.

The day after that it’s raining and cold, so I go down to the subway at West Fourth and watch thousands of people flow on and off of the trains. When I picture her walking through the station, sometimes her hair is pulled back into a tight bun, and sometimes it falls like the rain, streaming in waves down her back. In my head, she’s always wearing the sandstone coat, though it would be impractical in this wet weather.

But nothing about this is practical. I realize this while I’m sipping bourbon at a window seat at Analogue, scanning the commuters passing by on Eighth Ave. I’m tracking, trying to find a scent. Like a fucking dog. What would I do if I found her? What would I say?

_She’s a client._

I leave cash on the table and walk out, weaving through the crowded sidewalk towards my empty apartment.

\---

Nine days later, she is at my door. The breath catches in my throat when I crack open my door and see her standing there, so I just nod her into the room where I work. I feel my heartbeat pulse through my belly, my arms. I close my eyes and take a long, slow breath as she turns to set down her bag. _Get it the fuck together._ When I exhale, she’s holding out a stack of folded bills.

I take it from her and walk towards the drawer where I put the money. “I didn’t expect to see you again.” I put an edge on my voice.

She doesn’t say anything, but her green eyes look me over. I’m wearing loose black jeans and a tight, black racer-back tank top. No bra. Her eyes pause as she notices and then dart upwards to look into mine.

“Where’s your band shirt?” She asks, her voice inscrutable. I can’t tell if she liked the Wallflowers shirt or if she’s just making fun of me.

“I own other clothes.” I shrug. My eyes roll down her body. No sandstone coat. No coat at all. A sleek, dark blue button-up drapes over her the same way my Wallflower shirt hangs on me, teasing at curves. Her pants are gray herringbone, cut in perfect lines down her legs. Her shiny brown oxfords were probably worth two appointments with me.

I look up. “So what do you want?” I try to sound bored, but there’s blood pounding in my wrists, my ears. I notice that her hair tumbles in big waves halfway down her back. Almost like I had pictured it.

She tilts her head slightly and squints at me. Her eyes tell me nothing, but she is fully present—no hint of the black swarming from last time, the faraway eyes that told me that I was nobody or anybody.

She doesn’t answer but keeps looking at me steadily as her hands move to her shirt. She unbuttons the top button, then the next, then the next. Finally, her shirt hangs open exposing a strip of skin and the hint of a black bra. Her eyes widen.  _What are you going to do?_

I don’t move, keeping my eyes on hers.

She crouches down, unties each shoe and then slips them off, then pulls off each sock. She stands and looks at me again.

I still don’t move. I search the green in her eyes for clues. Nothing.

She reaches up and slides the shirt off her shoulders and lets it fall to the ground. The bra underneath is simple. The goosebumps across her belly betray her, but just a little.

My heartbeat fills my whole body. I remember the tiny hairs of her stomach against my fingertips. I remember that smell on her neck. I keep my breath steady, my face disinterested. _She will not win._

She squints again, her eyes almost asking a question.

I stay where I am, crossing my arms in front of me.

She shrugs and turns towards the bed. With her back turned to me, she unbuttons her pants and lets them slide off of her. She leaves them in a pile at her feet and sits. Her underwear match her bra, both unadorned, simple.

She is no longer the statue she was the first time, but a living challenge issued. Her face is alert and alive, quiet and intense. She leans forward not to invite but to threaten. I am the one who is clothed, and she is the one who is exposed. Even still, she is an oak towering over me.

I crave her.

_She will not win._

Her mouth opens slightly. She lifts her eyes and then her head. “Are you coming?” It’s not really a question.

My fists clench, fingernails digging into palms. _She’s a client. Give her what she wants._ A white rage of want washes through me. _Or end it now._

“No,” I say quietly.

Her whole body stiffens as she sits up. She throws her shoulders back, and her eyes narrow. She stands up. Her eyes stare past me at the door briefly and then come back to me. I can almost see her energy collapsing towards its core, ready to burst.

But then she laughs. It’s a small laugh, almost a scoff, breathy but sincere.

It’s the saddest laugh I’ve ever heard.

She’s still smiling a little as I unclench my fists. Her mouth curves into a soft, sad smirk. She laughs again. “To be honest, I don’t really know why I’m here.” She picks up her shirt and slips it on, though she doesn’t button it. Then she collapses onto the bed, her head against the headboard.

Goosebumps prickle across my skin as the blood that was rushing through me slows to a trickle. I want to crawl into bed beside her, under the comforter to get warm, but it doesn’t feel right.

“Are you with anyone?” I don’t know why I say it, but there it is.

“Seriously?” Her eyes turn a shade darker. “That’s what you’re asking me right now?”

 _Get your shit together._ “I just—” I sigh. “I just ask because the people who come to me usually are.”

“What’s your real name?” Like she didn’t even hear me.

I wrap my arms around myself. “I don’t think you need to know that.”

“But you think you need to know what’s going on in my personal life?”

“You just seem…” I shake my head. _Why am I doing this?_ “You just seem so...sad.”

Her shoulders fall, and her eyes “Maybe,” she says quietly, “Maybe I just want to feel something with no strings attached.”

I walk over and sit on the bed, my thigh barely brushing hers. “That’s fine.”

“Then what’s going on here? Shouldn’t we be fucking right now?”

“Is that what you want?”

“I thought I made that clear.”

“Maybe you did…” She definitely did. But I had backed away.

“I mean, you’re a prostitute, right?” Her face turns red. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean—”

“No, it’s fine.” I cut her off. I don’t want to hear what she’s about to say. “I am...but I prefer to be called a ‘sex worker.’ Not prostitute.”

“Right. I’m sorry.” She looks down at her hands. “I just thought that, well, we’d just have sex and I’d go.”

“If that’s what you want…” That’s usually how it goes.

“Then why didn’t you…” She trails off. I keep asking myself the same question. The silence between us feels endless until she says, “Maybe I need to find another...person.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Jesus, why do you keep asking me that?” She starts buttoning up her shirt.

“Because I see you,” I say quietly. “And I know that’s not what you want.”

She sucks in her lips and shakes her head. I see anger start to glow behind her eyes. “You don’t know me.”

“No, but I _see_ you.” I’m almost whispering. I see the sadness that she carries on her back like a stack of logs, and I want to set it on fire. I see the strength that she uses to build a wall around herself, and I want to tear it down. I look straight into her eyes, willing her to see it all, too.

Her eyes soften then fall. But in an instant they’re back on me, dark and defiant. “What are you, a fucking therapist?” She stands up.

I let out a heavy breath. “No, I’m not.” The sad laugh I let out is a lot like hers. “Though I probably should be.”

“Well, that’s not why I came here.”

“I thought you didn’t know why you came here.” I can hear the sharp edge on my words. I stand up and face her.

_She will not win._

She tilts her head again, starts to unbutton her shirt again. She lets it slide off. She steps towards me. I see her chest rising and falling, her breath quick. I look at her eyes, and they’re a swarm of green and black. She grabs at my tank top, gruffly pulling me towards her.

“I came here,” her voice is distant, like she’s speaking to me through glass. “For this.” She shoves me back onto the bed. “Now take off your shirt.”

I’m shaking with an anger I don’t understand, but I’m also hungry for her. I take off my shirt and reach for her, but she dodges my hand.

“You don’t need this from someone like me,” I say, but now I’m not so sure. Her face is wild and vacant but free in a way, like she’s letting go of herself. And who am I to judge? I let go of myself sometimes. To get through a client, to get through a day. To get through a year.

“You don’t know what I need.” She unclasps her bra, and lets it fall to the floor along with her panties. Her body looks like it has been carved from wood, strong and hard. _Like oak._ I want to feel the weight of her. I want her shoulder in my mouth. I want to taste her.

She smiles, but there’s no joy in it. “I know you want me, _Cate_.” She spits the name out. She doesn’t care who I am. She crawls on top of of me and drops her mouth to my ear. I rub my nose against her neck and inhale. Fallen leaves and rain. _She smells like autumn._ Her skin can’t hide who she is, even when her eyes are far away.

“Touch me,” she whispers.

I slide my hand up her side, gliding it softly over her nipple and brushing the underside of her breast. I gasp. Her skin feels like the sun.

“Not there.” Her voice is coarse, her breathing hard.

I move my hand down over her belly and down between her legs. She’s wet and swollen, her clit rock hard. I let two fingers move over it once, twice. She lets out a ragged breath and another. My fingers dance over and around her again and again in a rhythm as her breath gets faster and faster. Just as I think she’s getting close, her face is suddenly above mine, surrounded by a sea of long, brown hair. She kisses me hard, her tongue pushing against mine, and then pulls back.

Her eyes swarm. “Fuck me.”

She’s gone, but I don’t care. I slide my fingers inside her and explore. The inside of each woman is a different adventure. Some are shallow, some deep. I follow the curve of her (just to the left, I note) and reach for her soft spot.

I know I find it when she lets out a low growl then sits up and rocks against my hand. Her head is tilted, her eyes looking upward, her hair falling behind her, some of it sticking to the sweat on her back. The curves of her muscles shine as she works her hips, her body moving in a wave from her shoulders down her stomach and through her thighs.

She is beautiful.

Just before she comes, she collapses onto me, groaning and rocking. I feel the waves pulse inside her, in sync with the way her body moves back and forth against mine. After the last shudder, she’s lying still on top of me, her head across my collar bone. Like the first time.

This time I don’t say a word. I feel her sweat drip onto me. My fingers are still inside her, and she is warm, close. Her breath steadies, but she doesn’t move. I hear her swallow. I breathe in and hold the breath. I pull my hand away from her. She swallows again and then abruptly pushes herself up. Without looking at me, she stands, collects her clothes, goes to the bathroom, and closes the door.

The sink runs, but not for long. A few minutes later, she comes out, dressed and sleek. In one smooth movement, she grabs her bag and glides to the door. She doesn’t look at me.

The door clicks shut. She’s gone again.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hey Nonny, it’s Cate....I’m alright, how are you?....Haha, no, I’m not taking new guys, but that sucks....No, I’m sure. I can’t deal with them right now, and my schedule is about as busy as I want it to be....Guys are fine! They’re just not as fun, you know what I mean?....Really? What do you like about them?....I know! TOTALLY easy to boss around, but that’s what bores me, you know?....No, you do you. But you don’t really see clients anymore, do you?....Oh right. Good for you....No, things are good, I was just calling to ask you something….That client I saw last Wednesday at 5….Elle? That’s her name? I thought you weren’t supposed to—….Oh, right. Well, I was wondering if you could just give me a heads-up before she comes next time….No, uh, she’s just a little, uh, intense, you know, and I think it would be helpful to know if she was coming—you know, so I can prepare….Nothing’s going on, it’s just that last time I didn’t feel—….No, Nonny, it’s totally professional….I don’t think that’s necessary….I mean, she’s a repeat customer, so I don’t know if she’d like—….Yeah, exactly….I’ll be careful….Yeah, thanks. So you’ll text when she’s coming again?_

I’m biting my lip when I hang up. I don’t really know why I just did that. I don’t know how it’s going to help. And now Nonny is suspicious, which is something I don’t need. I’m good at what I do. I’m in demand, you might say. I can ask for what I want. But not if Nonny thinks I’m off my game.

I set down the phone on the side of the sink and look in the mirror. I wonder what L stands for. I wonder where she is right now. Maybe at home, sipping coffee. Pourover. Black. She’s nestled into a couch looking out at the Hudson River. Her walls are very white and covered in tasteful black and white photos. Her hair is down, wet. Or maybe she’s out for a run. Or maybe she works on Saturdays. Maybe she’s an art dealer. Or an architect. 

She’s always alone.

_Stop._

But I don’t. I wonder when she’ll see me again. Or if. 

\---

Nonny doesn't text me. 

So when I open the door, the calm cool I cultivate for every appointment melts off like a snowflake hitting skin. My stomach twists around itself, and I feel the blood rush into my arms and legs. Like I’m preparing for an attack. 

“Are you okay?” she asks. She’s looking past me, asking more for herself than me.

I smooth the front of the Wallflowers shirt I wouldn’t have worn if I had known she was coming. “Yeah, I’m good,” I say a bit too loudly and with too much assurance.

I see her lips curl up in one corner. “Can I come in?”

I don’t know if I want to let her in. I don’t know if I want her to push me, to strip me down, to fuck me like I’m anybody or nobody.

To leave when it’s all done.

I pause and lean against the door. The power to let her in—or not—gives me peace. I feel the blood slow in my veins. 

She sighs loudly but I don’t move. I find my game face and look her over. Her clothes are once again dark, simple. A gray cashmere sweater pushed up to just below the elbow to reveal smooth forearms. Black pants and boots. Her long hair is pulled back tightly in a bun, no strand escaping, her face both wide open and impenetrable.

Another moment passes. She doesn’t move, but her mouth goes tense.  

“I don’t have to be here,” she finally says, finally looking into my eyes. It’s like a light turned on in a pitch black room. Sharp, almost painful. But there’s something else, too. If my words were too loud and assured, so was her glance.

“Are you sure?” I ask, my lips curling up in one corner.

Her knuckles tighten around her shoulder bag. She takes a breath and lets it out in a scoff. She doesn’t roll her eyes, but her cold smile has the same effect. “Yeah, I’m sure.” She turns around.

My heart kicks in my chest. “Wait.” I reach out for her hand but grab air. She keeps walking down the hall, not looking back. I watch her take a few steps, swallow, and throw away decorum. I chase her. I grab her wrist and pull her back. She snaps it away, but she stops. She tilts her head. _Well?_

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I close my eyes, looking for words. Finally, I bite my lip and drag my eyes open, pull them up to hers. Her pupils are pinpoints. She’s ready to attack. I draw in a long breath. I let it out and feel my heart slow to a saunter. I shake my head. The mask is gone. 

“My name is Clarke.” 

Her pupils expand and the green around them seems to dance. She sucks in her lips. “I didn’t need to know that.” The words are sharp, but she says them softly.

“Maybe not, but I wanted to tell you.”

“Why?”

_Because I wonder what kind of coffee you drink. Because every time I’m at the park, the trees remind me of you. Because I look for you on the subway and when I walk to the dry cleaners. Because I wonder who loves you._

“Because…” I reach for her hand. She doesn’t pull away. Her fingertips are calloused. _Maybe she climbs rocks. Maybe she plays guitar._ I rub my thumb over the rough skin. 

She’s looking down, her eyes suddenly sad. “Can we go in?” She nods at the open door.

“Yeah,” I whisper. I keep hold of her hand and pull her towards my room. 

\---

I didn’t become a sex worker because I was forced into it. There was never some sketchy older man in some alley telling me how beautiful I am, how I could make a killing. I wasn’t sexually assaulted at any point. (Though some of my colleagues were, and deciding who they fuck and how—and taking people’s money to do it—is the way they took back their sexuality. And honestly, good for them). I didn’t run away from my comfortable suburban family in high school to rebel.

I became a sex worker because I am sexualized whether I want to be or not. Men give me looks on the subway, strangers offer to buy me drinks at bars and ask me out on the street. In college, I was rated a 10+ on some stupid app some computer science major created—6+ was considered fuckable. I brought that shit down, but that’s a story for another day.

So I chose to make it my own. My body is beautiful. I am beautiful. I enjoy sex. Men were going to sexualize me, so why not take it away from them, control it, and take advantage of it.

When I graduated pre-med, it was in the top 10% of my class and without any student debt. I deferred enrollment to Columbia Medical School to keep up my practice.

I found Nonny online (13 pages deep on a Google search for “NYC feminist sex worker”). Each of her Instagram captions started, “One of the girls asked me to post…” Every woman in every post looks straight at you, sometimes smug, sometimes sweet, but always lovely and always powerful. And if you don’t want to post, that’s fine, too. I never do. I sent her a DM, and she asked to meet. When we got together for a drink, she smiled at my jeans and plain black t-shirt and asked about what music I liked. We hit it off immediately. Months later, I asked her what she had been screening for.

“I just wanted to make sure you knew—like really knew—how incredible you are. And you did.” That’s all she said.

I started with men. Nonny screened them and sent them my way. Easy money. Some were bored husbands looking to simulate the chase they missed. Some were hyper-efficient businessmen with needs but no time to woo. Some were insecure manboys looking to build their confidence. Some of them liked to talk a bit, so I indulged them (until their time was up). Some of them were sad, but none of them broke my heart.

My heart didn’t break until Nonny asked me if I was open to women, until I said yes, until I met Alison. She was shy when she came through my door (they all are), and she was beautiful. Long braids down her back, light brown eyes flecked with green and gray. The lines on her face betrayed a thousand deep hurts and a thousand deep joys. You could fall in love with the way she sometimes slowly dropped her chin and rested her eyes on you.

I didn’t fall in love, but I liked her. At first she scared me, because whenever she stepped within a three-foot radius of me she seemed to know whatever my truth was in that moment. 

“You’re not Cate,” she said breezily the first time, cutting through her shyness. “You don’t have to tell me your real name, though.” She did that chin drop. “But my name is Alison for real.”

“Alison For Real is a strange name.”

“So you want to keep this professional then. Keep your distance.” She shrugged, nodded, looked around the room. “That makes sense. But you don’t have to make corny jokes. Just tell me if I get too close.”

I couldn’t fake it with her. She knew when I wasn’t in the mood to work, but then she’d just want to talk. She told me about her boyfriend. They’d been together four years, and she knew he was going to propose soon. It’s not that he didn’t love her. From the way she described him, he seemed like a pretty good guy. The kind of guy who had an extravagant dinner ready for her when she came home from work late and who did the dishes after. The kind of guy who lets her put her ice cold feet on him in bed to warm them up.

The kind of guy who knew she was here with me and shrugged, saying “If you think it’ll help...”

“Help what?” I asked when she told me. We were fully dressed lying next to each other on the bed.

“I don’t….” she looked down, the confidence she carried through the door gone. “I don’t believe him when he...touches me.” 

“Believe what?”

“That he means it.”

“Means what?”

“That he wants me. That he thinks I’m beautiful. That I’m good enough for him.”

“Alison, you’re an emotional telepath. Don’t you just...know?”

“I don’t trust what I feel from him.”

“What do you pick up from him?”

“Love. Kindness.” She smiled a little, looked away. “He’s so kind.”

“I don’t understand then…” I reached out and touched her arm. “Do you believe me when I touch you?”

She nodded and looked past me. “But this isn’t meant to be....forever. He keeps saying forever, and I want to believe him because I love him, but he’s so kind and amazing, and I’m just...me.” She looked at her hands and shrugs, tears piling at the corner of her eyes. 

This was the moment my heart broke. It was the moment that I wanted, with all my body, to show her how lovable, how beautiful, how _worthy_ she was, and it was the moment I knew I never could, but that I’d try anyway. 

It was also the moment I finally understood my first meeting with Nonny. 

\---

When I close the door behind us, I see her standing in the middle of the room. Her eyes look around slowly like she’s never been here before. Her shoulders drop and her head falls. She sways slightly as she drops her bag on the floor. She is not a statue or an oak. She is a reed in the wind. 

“I don’t know why I’m here,” she whispers.

“Is that true?” I whisper back. I take her hand between mine, holding it like it’s made of glass. She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t move her fingers, but doesn’t pull away. 

She sighs. “I don’t know if I want to talk.” She lets go of my hand, walks over to the bed, and sits at the edge. She leans down over her knees, rubs her eyes and face, her fingers moving up her forehead and over the crown of her head. There she rests, folded over, compact. 

I take a few slow breaths, wishing I had Alison’s gift for reading people. But this woman is a knot, tightly wrapped around herself. A bow pulled back but never released. Her severe clothes, the muscles rigid over her forearms, the hair pulled back—all control and tension. Ready to spring. Ready to defend.

I climb onto the bed, positioning myself behind her. I feel her shoulders go rigid when I put my hands on them. I leave them there until I feel her soften, until I feel her breath barely moving them up and down. Then I reach up, touching her hair that is pulled into a perfect bun, twisting around itself with almost disconcerting symmetry. My fingers run along the base of the bun until I feel a bobby pin that I pull free.

Her hand comes up reaching for my wrist, but it stops and drops. She tilts her head back towards me. Her eyes are closed.

I find another pin, and then another, and toss them on the floor as I pull them out. Threads of wavy hair fall like leaves. The bun is tilting and bulging after I’ve found the last pin and pulled it out. Finally, I find the hair tie keeping it all together. I tug gently to loosen it, and her head gives, letting me work it free. I take my time—more time than I would have taken with my own hair. When I finally untangle the tie from her long hair, the bun streams down her back, but the rest holds on stiffly to the curve of her head, product struggling to keep everything in place. 

I break through the stiffness with my fingers, running them through her long hair, feeling the hold dissolve. It all starts to flow like a slow river down her back, its currents curving in long waves. I let my fingertips push into her scalp and feel her head drop into my hands. My fingers comb through every inch of her hair that reaches nearly halfway down her back. I press against her temple, brush around her ears, move down the nape of her neck. 

She doesn’t make a sound but moves her head with my hands.

When I know I’ve pulled through every strand, I put my hands on her shoulders again. She leans back into me, eyes still closed, a wisp of a smile on her face. “Thank you, Clarke.”

My breath catches when I hear my name. It’s strange to hear in this room where no one knows, this room where Cate reigns with an arsenal of touches, with walls that shift but never go down. Clarke always knew what was at stake here. She always knew that it’s impossible to completely separate the physical from the emotional, so she invited Cate to manage the risk. Cate who guides the chase so precisely that you never see her steering away from soft and open places inside after exploring all the soft and open places on the surface; who is so charming that you believe that you were the one who decided when it was time to leave; who greets you with the same sly smile when you come back to do it all over again. 

 _No, I’m not Cate_ , I remember saying that first time.

I bite my lip and blink my suddenly wet eyes. _It’s never been me_ , Cate tells me. _Not with her._

_Be careful._

I wrap my arms around her pull her closer so she can’t see that I am utterly open. I want to ask about her family. I want to know where she grew up, if she likes the smell of rain, what she thinks about when she’s alone. Instead, I push her hair aside and kiss the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. I inhale, taking in her smell. Earth and leaves. 

“You smell so good,” I whisper. I close my eyes. I see Cate shake her head and smile as she fades away. 

“What do I smell like?” 

“Like autumn.”

She’s still got that wispy smile, her eyes closed. “My favorite season.” 

“Why?”

“The chill in the air. And things just seem to get quieter.” She tilts her head back onto my shoulder.

I nod. The rains have been colder lately, more biting. Autumn is almost over. I wonder if winter will sweep this scent away. I wonder how long this will last. I wonder if she’s afraid.

We sit in silence for awhile. I brush my fingers up and down her forearm. Something about the air changes as she settles against me, like a storm has passed. Like the roads are wet and the rivers are running fast, and the sun is revealing everything.

“You came back,” I whisper.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

I feel her take a deep breath. “I just...had to. I tried to let it go, but…”

I wait. I don’t want to push her. But she never finishes her thought. I take my own deep breath. I’m impatient. I want more. I can feel it, and I know she feels it. I try to hide the sigh that comes out on the exhale. She shifts. I feel her back stiffen, straighten. She takes her weight off me and turns around. Her long hair is soft around her suddenly hard face. 

“I don’t know why I came back.” Her voice is quiet but it has an edge. Her eyes are swarming. 

_No. Please._

She steps off the bed and reaches for her bag. She pulls out her wallet.

I stand up. “I don’t want your money.”

She pulls out a stack of bills and walks over to the side table. “It goes in the drawer, right?” She opens it and places the money inside.

“Please, no.” The sadness settles over me like a heavy fog.

Her eyes narrow as she approaches me. She moves in on me quickly, her mouth on mine. I turn my head.

“No.” I grab her wrists and hold her away from me. “I don’t want this.”

Her eyes are almost as black as they are green now, storming and angry. “I thought this was about what I wanted,” she growled.

“Is this really what you want?” I whisper. Her jaw is tight, and her hands are in fists, but she doesn’t move. “Do you want to disappear?” I ask, feeling my eyes flood.

She steps back quickly, her jaw still tight but her eyes suddenly clear. She bites her lip. Then she looks down.

I reach my fingers up to gently lift her chin. When she looks up, her eyes are reluctant. Mine are steady on hers, unblinking.

“I don’t ever want you to disappear,” I say quietly as the tears finally escape. 

She looks down again. “You don’t know me.” She’s said it before. This time, it’s quiet. She knows she doesn’t believe it.

“I think I might.” 

I see one corner of her mouth drift up, a sad grin.

“I mean, I don’t know what kind of coffee you drink or why your hands are so calloused, but…” 

Her eyes are shining, ready to spill. She lets out a huff that is the smallest laugh. “Pourover. And I’m really picky about my beans.” She rubs the tears from the corners of her eyes before they can fall.

 _I knew it._ I smile.

She smiles back—with her eyes this time. “And I carve wood for fun. I’m not very good, but it helps with…” She shakes her head. “My living room is covered in wood shavings. That’s why my hands…”

“What do you carve?”

She looks down, slightly embarrassed. “I carve knife handles.” She shrugs. “I don’t know why.”

“Is that a weird thing to carve?”

“No, it’s just that I don’t ever put blades in them. I just get it so it feels perfect in my hand.” I see her fingers curl around a handle only she can see. “And then I do another one.” She huffs another laugh and shakes her head. “Why am I telling you this?”

I reach for her curled fingers. “Because I asked.” 

She stares at our hands together.

“Can I ask you another question?” I ask.

“Can I stop you?” She doesn’t look up, but her voice is soft, and the wispy smile is back.

“No.” I smile. Then I look down. I open my mouth, then stop. I let out a breath. I look at her until she finally looks up at me. I step towards her and take her other hand. “Why do you always want to disappear with me?” I finally ask.

She lets go of my hands and looks down. “I don’t disappear with you, Clarke.” Something about the way she says my name makes me shiver. “You’ve seen more of me than anyone has in a very long time. It scares me.” She looks up, her eyes as steady as I’ve ever seen them. “And it’s what makes me come back.”

I feel my heart jump. 

“I just wanted something that I didn’t have to think about,” she says. “Everyone needs something from me out there.” She nods towards the door. “I just wanted to let go for once. But you—you fucked that all up.” She doesn’t look up, but a tired smile crosses her face. She sits back on the bed.

I raise my eyebrows. “Me?” I shake my head and sit down next to her. 

“I thought you’d be...I don’t know. I didn’t think...” Her eyes glance over at me. “Why do you even wear that shirt?”

I can’t even stop the smirk. “Why are you so...curated?”

She literally waves my question away. “What’s the story with that shirt?”

“You’re still doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“Trying to control everything. Revealing nothing.” I look out the window. “Maybe that works out there. But I’m not interested in caving to you.”

She nods slowly, sucking in her lips, calculating her next words. “You know why I’m curated.” She glances down. “You know what your shirt does to people. That’s why you wear it here. I bet you don’t wear it outside of this room.” She glances up, a soft but somehow pointed look straight into my eyes.

I nod. She’s right. 

“You’re just as controlling as me, _Cate_.” It’s not mean, not this time, just the punctuation on her point. “And I get it.” She fiddles with the edge of her sleeve. “We’re all trying to get people to see us a certain way.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I’m not. I’m trying to be a mirror.”

Her eyes squint. “What do you mean?”

“I want the women who come here to really see themselves.”

“How?”

“By showing them that they’re desirable. That they’re worthy. No matter what.” 

“What about the men?”

“They don’t need my help with that. They’re just money.”

She flinches—barely, but I see it. “Do you wear this shirt with them?”

“Yeah, of course I do.” I don’t know why she’s so fixated on my Wallflowers shirt. I don’t know how to explain why I love it or how it makes me feel. I don’t even know if I understand. “I just know I feel like me when I wear it. And that’s what I need in this room.”

“So you don’t disappear…” Her green eyes are clear and endless when she looks at me.

“Yeah…” I trail off. 

“Can I try it on?”

I grin. “You want to put on my shirt?”

“Yeah.” She grins back. “Is that allowed?”

“No one’s ever asked before.”

“Let’s trade.”

I take a deep breath in let it out. “Okay.”

She smiles, and her whole face changes when she does. Like when the sun breaks out from behind the clouds on the ocean. Grays suddenly going green and blue. She’s almost gleeful when she reaches down and pulls off her sweater. Underneath is another simple black bra.

I take a moment to take her in. How did I never notice the long scar on her side? How did I never see the tattoo on her upper arm? Her skin carries so many stories. 

She catches me looking at her, and one side of her lip curls up gently, almost sadly but not quite. “I think it’s your turn.”

I grab the hem of my shirt and pause. I don’t know why, but suddenly I’m shy. Suddenly I feel like she’ll see every bit of me if I take it off. Like she’s never seen me before. Like I’ve never been inside her. Maybe it hadn’t been me. Maybe it had been Cate all along. _No, that’s not true._

I feel a hand on my cheek. She turns my face towards hers. Her eyes are greener, brighter, warmer than I’ve ever seen them. She leans in and rests her lips on mine. It’s a kiss so soft and simple that I almost cry. I return the kiss as softly and simply as I can. I shiver. We’re barely touching, but I feel her in every part of my body. 

She pulls back and pulls me up as she stands. We face each other for a moment, her eyes on mine. Then she reaches for the hem of my shirt and pulls it over my head. I’m not wearing a bra. Exposed. I fold my arms over my chest. But she’s not looking at me. She sets the shirt on the bed, unclasps her bra, and lets it slide to the floor. For some reason, I’m afraid to look at her. I only glance up once I know she’s slipped the shirt on. 

I can’t help but smile. The thin material settles over her curves the way it’s supposed to, almost revealing more about her than if she wasn’t wearing anything.

“It’s so soft,” she says, rubbing her hands over the cloth on her belly. 

“Is it everything you hoped?” I joke.

“Yeah.” Her face is open but serious. “It is.” She looks down. “I love it.” She looks back up at me, hiding behind my arms. She grabs my wrists gently and guides my arms to my sides. 

I close my eyes. My heart is pattering like rain. Dozens of people have seen me like this. Probably hundreds. Why do I feel so afraid?

I feel her fingers on the back of my hand, running up my forearm, over my triceps, around my shoulder, under my jaw, and pulling my chin up. I open my eyes. The waves of her hair fall to the stars on the Wallflowers album. Her lips are slightly parted in the slightest smile, a smile deep with sadness, longing, and hope. She is beautiful.

“You are beautiful,” she whispers. She wraps her arms around me and pulls me into her, resting her head on my shoulder. 

It’s strange when I breathe in. I’d never noticed the scent of me until it was on her. It’s harder for me to describe, but I know it. I always have. I smile to myself when I realize I like my scent. I smell good. _Of course I do._ I almost laugh. Then I catch her autumn scent together with mine. It makes me pull her closer. 

I like her against me. I like feeling the thin fabric between our curves. I like the way her chest pushes slightly into mine when she breathes. 

We hold each other for a long time, until our breathing falls in line together, until she finally asks, “Do you mind if we lie down?”

I nod. When I try to take off the Wallflowers shirt, she just shakes her head. I crawl under the comforter. She follows, nestling up behind me, wrapping an arm around me, resting her hand on my sternum. 

I don’t know when we fall asleep or for how long. I know the room is dark when I wake up. And I know she’s gone. 

I turn on the lamp on the side table. The drawer is slightly open. I look in, and the money she’d put inside is gone.

I feel myself smiling when I glance over at the chair and see her gray sweater on it, neatly folded. I’d never put it on, but she had honored the trade anyway. I climb out from under the blanket to pick it up. There’s a note on top, written in neat, sharp-edged handwriting:

_I took your shirt. Hope you don’t mind. -Lexa_

_\---_

**_Thanks to[qvert](https://qvert.tumblr.com/) for the art!_ **


	4. Chapter 4

The room has changed for me. I see her everywhere.  _ Lexa. _ Lingering in the doorway, looking defiant and lost in the middle of the room, sitting on the edge of the bed almost smiling. When the sun hits a particular slant through the windows, I can smell her autumn scent. 

Everything has changed. At first, being with her was like speaking through cracks in thick walls—walls only fully but momentarily broached by rough touches, sweat, and that brief blindness that makes you forget everything. But then all the walls crumbled. Including mine. 

It’s not great. I haven’t seen Cate since that day. Cate smirked and flirted and made jokes whenever clients pushed against those walls. Now that she’s gone, I can’t fake it anymore. 

I can’t fake it with Scott, one of the few men I still see, when he tells me how lonely he feels, when he kisses me and it tastes like beans masked in mint. Clearly, he thought the Altoid he sucked on before he arrived would do the trick.

Cate would have been coy, which is always just an invitation for him to do all the work. He would have literally chased her around the room until his time was almost up, until the fuck would have to be quick so he wouldn’t have to pay for another hour.

But it’s just me, and I can’t stop thinking about the chest hair that’s peeking out from the collar of his t-shirt.  _ Why are men so hairy? _ I want to ask him what it feels like to be so insulated, what it’s like to have to shave his face, but I don’t need Cate around to know that would probably ruin the mood.

I don’t feel like fucking him nor do I want to hear about his loneliness, so I ask if he wants a drink. Because I want a drink. I need a drink. I can tell he knows something is off, but maybe he’s generous enough to assume that I’m just having a bad day.

We drink, killing a bit of time, but then he finally comes close, kissing me as he pulls off my shirt. I’m surprised when I’m resistant. I don’t want him to see me. I swallow hard and shake my head.  _ It’s just a job.  _ The shirt comes off. When he pushes against me, all I can feel is the layer of hair that covers him, scratching my skin. How had I never noticed it before?  

It’s easier with Lucy. I don’t want her, but her skin is soft, and it seems like she brushed her teeth before she came. I genuinely like her. I’ve seen her transform under Cate’s care, and I’m actually proud of her when she’s bold enough to lean in to kiss me. I return the kiss, but it’s hollow, and she knows it.

She pulls back quickly and looks at me for a moment, her eyes narrow. “You did it, didn’t you?”

“Did what?”

“Have you always been this bad at lying?” She looks genuinely confused. Her face changes the next moment, though, and an amused smile dances across her lips. “You got what you wanted.”

Cate would have looked her up and down with a spark in her eye and said something ridiculous like, “I already got what I want.” And Lucy would have believed her. But I just look down.

“Is Lucy your real name?”

She steps away from me, puzzled. “Yeah,” she says. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

I shake my head. “Not everyone gives me their real name.”

“Cate, we don’t have to do this.”

“It’s Clarke.”

“What?”

“My name is Clarke, Lucy.” I extend my hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

She lets out something between a laugh and a sigh. “This is the last time I’m going to see you, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I think so.” I wonder what she makes of the sad smile on my face.

She nods, and the smile that creeps over her face slowly changes to understanding. “I knew something was up with you.”

I laugh. “You could have told me!”

“I tried! Listen, Cate—Clarke...that’s an interesting name.” Her face turns thoughtful and then suddenly kind. “I’ll let you off the hook if you tell me what happened.”

I nod slowly. “You were sort of right. I found what I wanted.” As I say it, I realize it’s true. “But I don’t know what’s going to happen.” I look up at her. “But I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Lucy reaches over and takes my hand. “I don’t need you anymore anyways.” She smiles. 

I shake my head. I wish she and I could be friends now that this is all over, but I know we can’t. I let go of her hand and walk over to the side table, pulling the drawer open.

“No, it’s alright,” she says. “I’m going to leave, and this will be done, but I want you to keep that. It’s my going-away present.”

I nod again, walk back over to her, and wrap my arms around her. She pulls me in, and I notice how strong she feels. “Thank you, Lucy.”

She rests her head on my shoulder. “Thank you, Clarke.”

_ Thank you, Cate. _

\---

Nonny agrees to meet me for lunch on a Thursday. 

“You’re quitting, aren’t you?” she asks before I can even sit down. A thin veneer of annoyance covers an amused smile.

“Whoa, let me order a drink or something.” I smile and pick up the menu. I haven’t seen her in a long time. 

“It’s that girl, isn’t it?”

“I need some rosé before I can have this conversation.”

“Stop stalling, Cate—”

“It’s Clarke.” I cut her off.

“This whole time!” Nonny’s eyebrows lift sharply, transforming her face. It’s clear she’s not easily surprised. “So who the fuck is Cate?”

I shrug. “It’s not like you had me fill out a W2.” 

Her smile is full now. “You’re good. I can usually sniff shit like that out.” She shakes her head. After a few moments, she looks up at me. “You fell for a client.” She smirks. “Amateur.”

I laugh under my breath. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s going on. I just know I can’t do this work anymore.”

“It happens sometimes.” She shrugs. “For some of us, this work is everything. For others, it’s only part of who you are.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you have a favorite teacher?’

I don’t stop to think. “Yeah. Ms. Mayfield. High school Latin.”

The waiter comes and takes our drink order.

Nonny doesn’t miss a beat. “You took Latin?”

“Yeah, because of Ms. Mayfield. She just made it...fun. And interesting. She loved it and she made us love it. Like her purpose on earth was to teach Latin.”

“That’s what I mean.” She looks me straight in the eye. “I can’t imagine doing any other work.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she replies. “I love the flirting, I love the mind games, I love the chase, I love the power. The sex is fine—sometimes it’s even good. But it’s the clients that fascinate me.”

I look past Nonny out a window that faces another window on the building next door. “I don’t know why I’ve been doing this work.”

“Because you could.” Her voice is suddenly soft. “But I always kind of knew you’d need out eventually.” She looks up. “It was only part of you.”

I let out a deep breath. The waiter sets two glasses of wine down.

“So…” She takes a sip and sets the glass down. “L?”

I nod. “Why didn’t you text me?” I look at her sideways.

Her laugh fills the room. “Because I knew. And you’re not supposed to get involved like that,  _ Clarke _ .” She laughs again quietly as she tests out my real name.

“I know…”

She puts her hand on mine. “Hazard of the trade. Happens to the best of us.”

“Even you?”

“Even me.” 

“So are you going to text me this time if she calls?” I ask, noticing my heart beating a little faster. I take a drink.

“She didn’t give you her number?”

I shake my head. I see a seed of doubt sprouting behind Nonny’s eyes.

“If you’re quitting, Clarke—it feels so weird to call you that—I can’t do that.” She shrugs. “I mean, I shouldn’t do it even if you’re not quitting. You’re smart. You must understand that.”

“Yeah…” I sigh. The prospect of taking on clients for much longer feels horrible, but less horrible than the prospect of not seeing Lexa again.

“So do you want to give me your keys?”

I close my eyes and shake my head. “Not yet.” Then I look up. I suddenly feel tired, but I smile. “But no new clients.”

\---

Two months is a long time to slog through a job like mine, to manufacture feelings that aren’t there, to go through the motions of strokes and touches and to try to make them believable. But I do it, driven by the constant hope that anytime someone knocks on the door, it might be Lexa. 

It never is.

I don’t see her until I stop one chilly morning to drink my coffee under the trees at Washington Square Park. I spin around when I feel a tap on my shoulder, and there she is.

“I thought that was you,” she says, her words a cloud in the crisp air. She’s wearing the sandstone coat, and her long hair is loose, tumbling down her shoulders. A large portfolio case hangs over her shoulder.

“Hey.” I can feel the confusion written across my face.

“It’s strange seeing you out here.” A tiny, shy smile pulls at her lips. She looks past me and bites her lip.

A take in a deep breath. I feel angry. Two months of forced encounters, two months of grinding it out, and I meet her here. “Where have you been?”

“What do you mean?” A shadow of impatience crosses her face. “Did I miss something?”

I open my mouth, but the words catch. I don’t know what I was expecting. “I just thought that maybe last time…” I look down. “I was waiting for you.”

She nods slowly and looks up at me, her green eyes clear. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Did you feel anything?” My voice is sharp enough to turn the heads of passers-by. “You said you wouldn’t disappear.”

“I didn’t say that, Clarke.” There’s nothing mean or cold in her voice. “I’ve thought about being with you in that room every day since.” She looks down. “But, I mean, you have those kinds of interactions all the time, right? That’s your job.”

“You think I’m like that with all my clients?” I shake my head, more discouraged than angry. “Lexa”—her name is so new on my lips—”you took the money. I thought you understood…”

She looks past me like she’s a child in trouble. Her eyes narrow, and I wait for the swarming, but then they soften as she gives up on trying to believe what she had said. She sucks in her lips and finally says, “We don’t know each other. Who I was in that room with you...”

I clench my jaw and slowly let it release. She’s right. In that room, the universe is folded in on itself, everything about her collapsed into the density of her eyes, her anger, her sex. Out here, though, she is a thousand things spread out over thousands of conversations, thousands of meals shared and alone, thousands of steps over these sidewalks. I don’t know her, and she doesn’t know me.

I look down at my hands.

“Hey,” she says quietly. I can tell she’s waiting for me to look up. I resist like child until my curiosity gets the best of me. However resentful I feel, I still want to be close to her. I glance up.

“I didn’t have to come over here,” she says. Her eyes are suddenly sad. “And honestly I almost didn’t, but...” Her words hang in a fog for a moment then dissolve into nothing. We don’t say anything as students rush by staring at their phones.

After awhile, I look down at her portfolio. “What’s in the case?”

“Blueprints. Drawings.” She smiles a little and shrugs. “I’m an architect.”

For some reason, I remember how stiff she was when I first saw her, how tired she seemed. “You’re good at it, aren’t you?”

“I’m very good.” It’s not arrogance, just fact. 

“Would I know any of your work?”

“Yeah.” That’s all she says.

“I like you, Lexa.” It just spills out.

She smiles. “I know.”

I’m surprised when I laugh and even more surprised when she laughs, too. It’s quiet, but there’s a joy in it that makes her seem lighter. 

She sets her case down and sits next to me. We sit in silence again. Finally, she looks at me, takes a breath, then looks down, biting her lip.

“Do you want to go to my place?” She wraps the strap of her case around her fingers. “I mean, if you don’t have anything going on.”

My heart is pounding. “Just give me a minute.” I pull out my phone and text Nonny. _ I’m done. I’ll give you my keys tomorrow. Cancel my client for this afternoon. I’m sorry.  _ I let out a breath. “Okay.”

“Let me call a Lyft.” She pulls out her phone. 

“Where do you live?”

“Brooklyn.”

I don’t know why that surprises me, but I nod and follow her as she makes her way to 4th Ave.

Something shifts as we wait for the Lyft. She’s standing close to me, our hands almost touching but not quite. I can feel the blood moving through me, waking up every inch of my skin. I glance over at her. She is stone, smooth and unmovable. She catches me looking at her and smiles, breaking the facade. I bite my lip.

When the car arrives, we both climb into the back. She slides the portfolio against the seat in front of her. As we turn onto Bowery, she looks up at me, her eyes an invitation. She reaches over and doesn’t take my hand but starts exploring every inch of it, moving her fingertips lightly over my palms, tracing between my fingers, moving up my sleeve to my wrist then back again. 

My body is glowing. I try to keep my breathing in check, glancing back and forth between Ramesh, our driver, and Lexa, whose face is steady with only a hint of mischief. Ramesh looks straight ahead. 

She’s still exploring every inch of my hand, occasionally brushing up against my thigh, as we’re crossing the Manhattan Bridge, as we’re turning onto Clinton, as he stops in front of a simple but elegant brick apartment building.

“Thank you,” Lexa calls out as she shuts the door behind her. Ramesh drives away and we stand on the sidewalk for a moment. She looks at me with a small grin and takes my hand, pulling me up some cement stairs to the front door. She fumbles with her keys and swipes a fob that lets us into a tiny lobby. We move through another door into a stairwell.

“I’m on the third floor,” she says, not looking back at me. 

I follow her up two flights to a landing when she stops. She drops her portfolio and turns around. She puts her hand on my cheek. Her green eyes are bright, so present. She leans in and rests her lips on mine tentatively. I want to wrap my arms around her, pull her against me. I want to dig my fingers into her back. I want her touching every part of me. Instead, I kiss her lightly, feel her lips tremble against mine.

Suddenly her arms arms around me, pulling me against her. She grabs my neck and kisses me hard, her tongue reaching for mine. We’re frantic now, our breath barely able to keep up with our hands fumbling with coat buttons.

A door slams a floor below, and we both freeze. 

She puts her hand over her mouth, covering a smile so big that it spills brightly into her eyes. Her joy startles me—it’s so spacious. “Let’s go.” She pulls me up the last flight into a hallway. We stop at a door, and I have no idea how she opens it so quickly, how there’s suddenly a door slamming behind me.

We’re in a small entryway, and she’s grinning at me as she pulls at the buttons on my coat and I pull at hers. When one button gets too fussy, she presses me against the wall and kisses me again. Like she can’t wait. I suck in a breath when she moves to my neck. Her hands still mindlessly work at the stubborn button, until finally it comes loose. Her hands race inside, under my shirt. They’re cold as they explore my warm skin, but I don’t care. She kisses me again but then stops, puts her hand on one cheek and rests her cheek against the other.

“Clarke…” she breathes into my ear, like it’s the only word she knows.

Everything has changed. 

I pull off her coat. She pulls off my shirt. I pull off her sweater. She pulls me into a living room saturated by mid-morning light. Between kisses, we kick off our boots, pull off our pants, then stand awkwardly in our socks until we both laugh. We reach down and take them off and find ourselves standing in the room in just bras and underwear. Hers are black and simple, as always. Mine are black, lacy, and almost sheer for the client I was supposed to have later. They’re so plainly seductive, I’m almost embarrassed. 

“Hey.” She reaches up and gently wraps her hand behind my neck, her eyes searching mine. “I like you, too.” She pulls me into her, our skin touching. 

I rest my nose against her neck, breathing in that scent of leaves and rain. “Where did you grow up?” I kiss under her jaw.

She laughs quietly. “Virginia,” she whispers. “You?” Her hand slides down my back, pulling me even closer.

Warmth washes in waves over my body. “New Canaan, Connecticut.” I let a trembling breath out. “Brothers or sisters?”

She pulls a bra strap off my shoulder and kisses the skin underneath. “No.”

I feel goosebumps rise over her skin. I swallow, trying to let my body feel every inch of her. “Me neither.” My hand moves up her side, fingers tracing the long scar. “What’s this about?”

Her hand moves up through my hair, cradling my head, and her lips are quickly on mine. The kiss is deep, her tongue moving slowly over mine, making every part of me come alive. I feel her hands move to my back and unhook my bra. She pulls away to let it fall to the floor. Her fingers lightly trace the curve under my breast where it meets my ribs. Now I’m the one covered in goosebumps.

“Are you cold?” she asks, a teasing smile on her face.

I pause. I can’t shake a thought from my mind. I rest my cheek on her shoulder. “Why did you come to me that first time?” My voice is barely there, but I can’t help but ask.

Her hands fall, resting on my hips. She lets out a long breath. “I’m not good at...feelings. I hadn’t felt very much in a long time,” she says slowly. “But I—I wanted to. ” She swallows. “I’m good at being alone.” 

Something sharp pulls through my chest, a dark loneliness that can’t just be hers. I wrap my arms around her and pull her into me. I barely shake my head. “I’m good at being alone, too.” She can’t see my slight smile as the realization washes over me. “I just do it differently.”

“Very differently,” she says. I can’t see her slight smile, but I feel it. She pulls back to look at me. Her eyes are clear like the sky after a storm. Old soul eyes that hold centuries, the green endless. And a hint of gold around the pupils. I’d never noticed it before.

I can tell she’s studying my eyes, too. I wonder what she’s thinking. Before I can ask, she leans in and kisses me, soft at first then deeply. Her hands slide up, her fingers wrapping around the curve of my ribs. Her strong hands are steadying. I remember how her strength had scared me that first time, but now it holds me, makes me feel like I can rest. 

No more words. Our bodies ask the questions, and our bodies answer. When her bra muffles the conversation, I reach back and unhook it. We pull off each other’s underwear, the lines of communication now totally open. Her mouth on my shoulder describing her sadness. My tongue wrapping around her ear explaining an emptiness like a bucket with a hole in the bottom. When the paragraph runs out, we move to the couch to start a new one.

Everything has changed.

She’s on top of me, the weight of all she is covering me. I pull her even closer—I want to know more. I want to know everything. Our legs get tangled, her thigh pushing against my clit and mine against hers. We both let out a breath we didn’t know we were holding. I start rocking against her, feel the heat of her truth moving slowly through me. Her eyes are closed, quiet joy written across the smooth skin of her face. Is that my truth moving through her?

She’s wet, spilling onto my thigh. We slide against each other, her breasts against mine, my stomach against hers, the friction smoothed by sweat. My fingers get tangled in her hair, and I push her lips into mine. Our breath is heavy, gasping with all that is moving between us. 

We turn from prose into poetry. 

\---

The mid-afternoon light is soft. I look around, seeing the room for the first time. Hardwood floors. A thick, off-white rug. A wooden coffee table, clearly hand-made with soft edges. Framed architectural sketches splashed with bits of watercolor. A huge black and white photo of the back of a woman in a forest. Her head is tilted back, her long hair covering her back, and her arms spread above her, reaching to the tops of the giants trees around her. 

“Is that you?” I’m sprawled on the couch, and she is collapsed over one side of me. She grabs a blanket hanging over the arm of the couch and halfheartedly tries to spread it over us. Half of it spills onto the floor. Neither of us care.

“Yeah,” she says, her head propping up to look at the photo. “That was a good day.”

“Where were you?”

“Oregon. Near the coast.”

I pause. “Who took the picture?”

Her smile is completely unguarded. “Are you jealous?”

“Maybe.” I smile back.

“My best friend,” she said. “He lives out there.”

I nod. She sets her head down on my chest. We lie there silently, watching as the light disappears and reappears. The clouds must be shifting.

Finally, she props herself up. “I’m gonna take a shower.” She sucks in her lips, grinning at the same time. “Do you want to come?

I smile. “Honestly, two people in the shower is always more fun in theory than in practice.”

She nods, thinking about it for a moment. She stands up and starts walking towards what must be the bathroom. She pauses and looks back. “You’ll still be here when I get out, right?”

One side of my mouth lifts in a playful smile. “Only if you promise to tell me about that scar.”

She looks down but then quickly brings her eyes up. “I promise.” She lingers for a moment, and I can see a hundred thoughts moving through her mind. She turns and closes the bathroom door behind her. 

I slip into the bathroom when she’s done and take a quick shower. When I get out, I’m startled. She’s wearing loose jeans and a plain black t-shirt. Her wet hair spills over her shoulders. She’s holding my Wallflowers t-shirt. 

“I thought you might want this back.” She looks down at it, not handing it back. She laughs nervously. “I...haven’t washed it.”

I smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I take it out of her hands and lift it to my face. Her fall scent is all over it. I set it down on a shelf nearby. “Maybe I’ll grab it next time.”

She nods, grinning slightly. “Do you want to get some coffee?”

I nod. “I’d love that.” Her eyes are bright when I look up. I smile. “Besides, you have things to tell me.”

###

**Author's Note:**

> _Thanks for reading! Drop me some kudos if you enjoyed. Drop me a comment if you have feelings. If you have thoughts you'd rather leave in private, get in touch with me: tsthrace at gmail. Also, I'm always looking for fanart to go with my stories, so if you're an artist who loves imagining Clarke and Lexa, let me know. I'm happy to compensate you for your work._
> 
> _I'm relatively new to this. Let me know if you think I'm missing a tag that should be there or any other suggestions you might have!_
> 
> _Fic title is one of my favorite[CHVRCHES songs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QpFXXPruuqU)._
> 
> _A lot of this story was informed by[Out of Office: Sex Workers Share Their Stories](http://www.papermag.com/sex-workers-stories-2598415448.html) in Paper._


End file.
